


Caricature

by 55anon (Anon)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-03
Updated: 2010-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon/pseuds/55anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever her nephew might think, Petunia Dursley had not always been this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caricature

Whatever her nephew might think, Petunia Dursley had not always been this way. She had not always been pinched and dry and bony, a caricature of the woman she could have been. And whatever he might think, she was not blind to her husband's and her son's faults. No—she was so practiced in willful ignorance that her fawning over Dudley and the inane affection directed at Vernon had become second nature. Petunia saw and understood more than her nephew could ever comprehend, and the only person she was blind to was herself. It had not always been that way.

He would never understand. Nor did she want him to understand—she could face his scorn and hatred. She would never let him pity her.

Harry, she thought derisively, was nothing like his mother. Lily had a sharp mind. If Harry had taken after her in the slightest way, he would have realized that Petunia was Lily's sister. She had been there when Lily had her first bit of accidental magic. She had seen how strange things happened to her sister, and they, co-conspirators, together found ways to make it happen more.

It was magical. As stupid as that sounds, there was no other way to explain the exhilaration they felt realizing, with the surety only children can feel, that magic was _real_.

And they were so sure that if Lily could make magic, it was only a matter of time before Petunia could too.

Soon, the landscape of their childhood was literally filled with magic, wondering if there were other children like them out there, wondering what they could do. Lily and Petunia immediately read every fairy tale they could get their hands on, looking closely at every mention of witches and wizards. She felt the tales come alive in a way they never had before, and there was one moment she remembered especially clearly; Petunia had a brilliant flash of insight that if magic was real, there was no reason that dragons and demons and dwarves weren't. If magic was real, she could swim with the mermaids and touch unicorns. Lily was afraid that meant there would be bad things also, like ghosts and bogeymen. Petunia retorted that she wasn't scared.

"I'm scarier than any bogeyman magic can make," she bragged. "And if they try anything—I'll curse them all."

Lily giggled.

Later, Lily would write to her that she had no doubt which house Petunia would have been sorted into. Petunia burned that letter.

They read everything they could get their hands on. Their mother taught them, amused by their solemn conviction that magic was real, about fairy rings and the magical little creatures that lived in mushrooms. Petunia befriended the neighbor's black cat, Lily searched for pixies in the bluebells. They knew before Lily met the greasy boy that Merlin must have been the greatest wizard who ever lived. It was obvious. Petunia fancied herself a Morgana, wreaking havoc among the roses.

As it turned out, Severus knew more about the magical world than they could imagine and, eager for friends but eager to hide that fact, lorded over them both. Petunia was naturally inclined to be suspicious of everything he said, which she was certain contained exaggerations. She couldn't count the number of times she told him he was wrong, at which point he would do one of three things: he would either hide behind his smelly hair, he would tilt his nose up at her and tell her his mother called him a prince, or he would appeal to Lily. Lily was always more willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. She always had a soft spot for sorry-looking creatures.

They had their differences. Petunia refused to let a slimeball tell her what she could and couldn't do, stuck her tongue out when Severus put limits on their imagination whining that "magic can't do this" or "magic doesn't work like that." Magic was magic. Even if Severus didn't have the wits to make it do as he pleased, she was certain that she and Lily could. And they did. And despite her general dislike of the nasty boy, those days were some of the happiest she had. She was simply waiting for the day she would feel the magic course through her, as Lily and Severus both described. She knew it would happen. There was no possibility it could not.

But days passed. Weeks. Months. Three years. Lily continued to reassure her that they had to be magical, both of them. Every other week, Lily would have some episode of accidental magic, but Petunia had nothing. There were a few occasions when she thought she felt something, but it was fleeting. That, or it was never there in the first place. Severus saw this. He saw it and he used it, pouncing on her new vulnerability like the sneak that he was. He sneered that Petunia didn't have an ounce of magic in her. She hated him for it, kicked him in the shins and shoved him into the dirt but deep down, she felt he was right. She suddenly felt that her blood was thin and dry, her hands brittle. It frightened her. It made her shiver at night under the covers, teeth chattering and skin tightening around her bones.

After that, she hated Severus. She absolutely loathed him. She tried to keep him and Lily from playing together, making up all kinds of excuses. At first, Lily was willing to go along with Petunia. But Severus was persistent and as slimy as the grease that coated his hair. It was clear to Petunia that robbing her of magic wasn't enough—he wanted Lily for himself. The selfish, grubby, stupid little boy wanted to steal her sister and it was working. Severus offered the lure of knowledge and magic. Petunia had nothing except her skin and bones and crooked smile. And the wisps of an imagination.

She wasn't sure when she started hating Lily, but by the time the Hogwarts letter came, the hatred was sealed. There was no going back. The distance between them had been growing, beginning with small arguments blowing up to major fights. Petunia screamed. She tore hair and clawed like an alley cat, knowing full well this only put Lily further in their parents' graces. She cried the night before her sister disappeared between the platforms, not sure if she was crying for herself or her sister.

Because she knew—the way she knew about magic, the way she knew she was dry, the way she knew a lot of things—she knew this would change her sister forever. Lily was going to a place where her dreams would come true but Petunia was stuck with this. The drab curtains. The telly playing the same inane programs over and over. The oppressive and mundane existence of a reality stripped of mystery and magic.

From that point forward, she did horribly in school, and not because she wasn't clever. It was quite the opposite—of the two of them, Petunia had always been the smarter one with the more vivid, if slightly twisted, imagination. She did terribly in school because school bored her to tears. Half the time, Petunia daydreamed about what it was like at Hogwarts. She had a very good idea—Lily wrote, avidly and in excruciating detail. Owls came to the house every other day addressed to her parents and sometimes addressed to Petunia. Lily was too excited to censor herself and consider what Petunia might be feeling. It got to the point where Petunia felt she would be able to walk through Hogwarts without trouble, she could see it so clearly.

There was one, and only one, occasion that she begged the headmaster to admit her. She thought that surely they could do something, surely it was a mistake that only Lily had magic. Petunia was _born_ for magic. She had known it better than Lily— _she_ was the one who had led their games, _she_ was the one who had made their adventures, _she_ was the one who had created their grand visions. It was magic—they must be able to do something about it. Anything was possible with magic.

When the owl came, that unfamiliar handwriting, her blood was racing, she felt she would literally rip through her skin in anticipation, her fingers unsteady taking the letter from the owl, she even scratched herself on its talons, racing up to her room, slamming the door and staring fiercely at the square of paper—

She had torn through Dumbledore's letter to read—no. That's not how magic worked. That's not how _magic_ worked. It made her laugh. It made her shriek. She read and reread and rereread the sentences until she thought they had been burned into her eyes. She laughed, teeth chattering, skin tightening unbearably stiff around her bones. She screamed into her pillow and cried. Then became angry. Then became absolutely furious.

This man—this _wizard_ —was putting a limit to what magic could and couldn't do. He was telling her to stay in her little magic-less place. Suddenly, Petunia saw the magical world as an elite club, a stupid, cloistered little league in which no amount of fighting or raging or _imagination_ could gain her entrance. Even the word he used, the one that Lily used more and more often—muggle—made the magic-less sound inferior. They'd closed their doors. They didn't want her.

Fine.

 _Fine._

If the magicians didn't want her, _she_ didn't want _magic_.

She didn't want to be part of their _freaky_ little world.

She would show them.

She would _show_ them.

When Lily came back home for the holidays, Petunia made it a living hell. As soon as she found out that Lily wasn't allowed to use magic in front of the _muggles_ , she used every trick to taunt, torment, and sometimes torture her sister. Just because she didn't have magic didn't mean she had lost her creativity.

In fact, it sharpened it. Because even though Lily wasn't mean enough to retaliate, Snape was. Petunia had to find increasingly devious ways of getting back at him, all without the advantage of magic. At the time they waged their little war, Petunia didn't think it was so much fun as it was an obsession. Looking back, she recalled the incidents with a vicious fondness. No, there was absolutely no doubt what house she would have been sorted into. There were points in their mutual animosity that Severus even looked at her with grudging admiration. He once told her he considered her a good schemer. Petunia's desire to gloat over him was immediately replaced with cold anger the minute he said "for a muggle."

Petunia got back at him for that the best way she knew how. She humiliated him in front of Lily. It was easy to see that the stupid boy liked her sister. Put him with Lily and he immediately became a sniveling, sniffling fool, worshipping the ground her sister tread on. She also knew he fancied himself something of a dark knight, and dreamed of the day when Lily would see him for the powerful wizard he was and they would fly off together on a broomstick. It was enough to make Petunia sick. Severus, however he might think of himself, was not hard to read. Petunia used that. She utterly emasculated Severus, setting the neighborhood _muggle_ boys on him. The pitiful thing couldn't even put up a fight.

Of course, Lily felt sorry for him and immediately rushed to his side, shooting Petunia dirty looks. Petunia watched with satisfaction as the greasy git's face burned with embarrassment at the idea of a girl rescuing him. She overheard something about marauders and watched the freak push Lily away.

As a side benefit, Lily didn't speak to her for a week. Petunia was so very proud.

That was Lily's second year. After that point, Petunia stopped being interested in magic and Lily's freakishness and more interested in clothes. Popularity. And a few years later, sex. The backstabbing, gossiping, narrow world of school consumed all her attention and Petunia quickly established herself as a contending queen. She learned how to make herself up. She learned how to plant cigarettes in her rivals' purses and report them to the school, the picture of wide-eyed innocence. She learned how quickly nonconformists were ostracized and scorned. She learned to conform. And she learned how to make her sister completely disappear.

Because suddenly, Lily's freakishness was a threat to Petunia's existence. If anyone knew about her sister's weirdness, they'd tear her apart faster than sharks ripping into a bleeding seal. Petunia had achieved the dream of every _normal_ teenage girl. She was popular. She was the queen of her own elite clique, but by no means could she ever trust them with this secret. They'd abandon her without a moment's hesitation and everyone would laugh at her and whisper behind her back that she was mental. Petunia had schemed too much to let little Lily ruin her status in a world her sister didn't even belong to. So she pretended Lily didn't exist. She got used to the idea that Lily was a freak and therefore an enemy. Magic, for all she was concerned, did not exist. It had never existed.

And it worked. For three blissful years, Petunia lived a normal, if somewhat repetitive and needlessly catty, teenage life. She kissed boys, skived off classes, shopped with her girlfriends, squealed over celebrities. Got perms, dreamed of going to Paris, lost her virginity, watched the telly. She ignored weird events and sneered at weirdness in general.

Lily became a phantom. A stranger who visited every summer.

But just when she had convinced herself that everything was right in her world, things became strange in ways she couldn't completely ignore. As the months went on, magic started to haunt her. She _knew_ something was going on. That uncanny feeling she'd had as a child returned, and it would not be ignored. Petunia saw wizards and witches everywhere. Anyone who dressed funny, she speculated. Every time something odd happened, she narrowed her eyes. There were a few times that Petunia walked to Platform 9¾ and stared at the barrier for absolutely no reason she could fathom. As time went on, the letters Lily wrote fewer letters to her parents and more letters to Petunia. As Lily grew up, magic became scarier.

Lily didn't stop writing those unbearably perky letters she had always been sending to their parents. She loved Charms, she was doing well in Potions, Professor Slughorn like her, James Potter was insufferable, she and Severus were embarking on another research project, Professor McGonagall thought her essay was clever, etc etc. To Petunia, she was different.

Petunia had no idea as to why Lily insisted on writing to her. It was long established that they didn't get along by any stretch of the imagination and Petunia knew Lily had plenty of friends she could confide in. Lily had always been like that—pretty, clever, kind, and therefore decently popular. It was a different kind of popularity than Petunia, one that gave her sister more real friends and less fake ones. There was no reason why Lily would write to her.

She was tempted to burn the first letters that came. But that feeling she had insisted that she keep them, even if she didn't read them immediately. They would be useful later. Petunia was tempted to burn them anyway, despite the feeling. She held the lighter to the parchment—she grudgingly called it that because it really wasn't ordinary paper—watching the ink gleam in the flickering light. She threw the thing under the bed and swore to forget about it.

More letters came, and more often. The feeling inside her grew. She sent a curt reply to Lily not to send any more stupid post, only to receive a thick envelop that looked like it contained a novel rather than simple correspondence.

One day she finally received a Howler. The sound of Lily's voice shrieking, almost pleading with her to read the letters was something she would never forget. When she had received another, different Howler from Dumbledore—her stupid nephew thought she didn't know what it was. _Of course_ she knew. If Harry had any sense, he would have figured out for himself that Petunia must have known much more than she had ever told him. But the boy didn't take after Lily—he had no imagination, no curiosity. Only an incredible knack to get into trouble and whine that he had no idea what was going on, trying to shift the blame onto anything else. Petunia thought that wizarding school would sharpen his senses, but he returned just as runty and dull as ever. No, Petunia knew someone had sent a Howler. She was simply terrified that she would hear Lily's voice shrieking, pleading with her to take care of Harry.

Those letters—Lily wrote of Dark Arts and a Dark Lord. Her writing gave Petunia the feeling that Lily was out of her depth and it didn't surprise her that Severus' name was in every other sentence. Something was happening in the freak world and Lily made it clear that it was spilling over into the normal world. She was afraid for their parents, she asked for Petunia to keep a cautious eye. The bint even had the gall to say she thought Petunia had a knack for premonitions. As though that would make up for anything.

But she read every letter. She learned about these Death Eaters—the vague references Lily kept making to killing and torturing were enough to terrify Petunia and simultaneously annoy her that Lily couldn't say anything more specific. Where were the most recent attacks? Who were the Death Eaters? What were they after? Had any _muggles_ survived? Was anything being done to prevent the killings? Lily seemed surprised that Petunia was so willing to believe and asking such pointed questions. Petunia curled her lip at the implied insult and kept a sharp eye out for any mention unexplained killings or abductions in the news. By the sound of Lily's letters, Petunia guessed that Lily didn't know enough magic to prevent these loonies from killing them, or she would have come home to set down some spells or charms or whatever herself.

The first opportunity she got during Christmas holidays, Petunia cornered Lily and demanded to know what was going on. Lily jabbered on about things she'd already written about, how this Dark Lord was gathering followers and killing muggles—Petunia snarled at the term—and how he was specifically targeting muggleborns.

"I am not _concerned_ about your life—I'm worried about _mine_ ," Petunia had replied.

Lily's green eyes flashed dangerously. That expression, more than anything, confirmed to Petunia that her sister had indeed shared everything she knew. They could work together, possibly, if only to protect their parents.

But they drove each other mad, trying to put together a viable plan. Lily shot down Petunia's ideas left and right, saying "magic would do this" or "magic works like that."

"I don't see _you_ contributing any brilliant ideas," Petunia finally snapped.

And she saw, for the flicker of a moment, that same fear Lily had had so many years ago, when she talked about ghosts and bogeymen. Only this time, they were real.

And for a flicker of a moment, Petunia wanted to offer her sister a crooked smile, throw her head back and declare that she was scarier than any bogeyman magic could make.

The moment passed. Neither of them said anything. By the end of the night, they didn't have a coherent plan. Lily's thinking was too trained by magic, Petunia's thinking was too trained by the world she inhabited, and they were at an impasse. They never resolved it. It hadn't occurred to either of them, still flush with the immortality of girlhood, that they wouldn't have another chance.

It was around that time that Petunia had met Vernon Dursley.

If Vernon Dursley was a wizard who attended Hogwarts, he would have been sorted into Hufflepuff. Loyalty, devotion were his outstanding qualities.

Petunia had always known the faults of her husband. He could never match her for wits, but by that time she had grown used to being surrounded by stupid people. He could never match her scheming, though he was manipulative in his own small ways. He was not handsome but then, neither was she. During a time when Petunia's self imposed wall against freakiness began to crumble, Vernon gave her a sense of normalcy that she began to realize she had grown used to. That she needed and craved because that was the only place she could ever belong, no matter her errant childhood dreams. He was practical, boring, and completely unimaginative. At a time when Petunia felt completely vulnerable and increasingly paranoid, Vernon Dursley's soothed away her fears. He held her and promised her he would protect her no matter what.

She believed him. She knew what was waiting for them in both worlds, she knew better than her sister guessed of the phantoms and terrors were hunting everyone. Lily's eyes told her of dangers that Vernon could never dream of in a thousand years. Yet she believed he would protect her no matter the cost to others. He might not succeed, but there were few men that Petunia knew who were capable of that kind of blind, bluffing, if slightly blustering, courage. One of them was her husband. The other was her nephew.

Many people faulted Vernon for many things—Petunia certainly did when she was feeling particularly bitter. He was small minded. Where Petunia willingly looked away from magic, Vernon was incapable of accepting it in any way. It stretched the boundaries of his mind too far and in doing so, made him fearful. Vernon was petty. He was mean. He cared more about what the neighbors thought than was healthy for a person, he grew bloated on the idea of his self importance rather quickly, but Petunia could live with that. She had her own obsessive tendencies and no one would ever say Petunia was nice. The years she'd spent ruling her social circle, keeping a sharp eye on each of her friends, left a mark on her in a way that she could never learn to be modest or sincere.

There were times when she felt she had become a caricature of herself.

Her nephew certainly thought so. She could see it in his eyes. The same eyes Lily eventually had, holding her in utter contempt for marrying a man like Vernon. For the choices she had made.

Lily would never understand.

Conversely, Vernon would never understand Petunia's secret. She refused to tell him about Lily's world. After their respective marriages—Lily to the Potter man, Petunia to Vernon—she finally felt the curtain conceal the magical world, move it completely out of sight. Yes, Vernon had many flaws, not the least of which was his immense appetite and ability to eat. But Petunia didn't care because Vernon Dursley was devoted to her and when he had gotten down on one knee—with a little difficulty—he had promised her he would love her and keep their family safe. He told her he was going to be promoted soon and they would be able to make their own little place. That was all that mattered to Petunia.

They honeymooned in Paris. People stared, the French turned up their noses, but Petunia—for possibly the first and last time in her life—did not care. When they returned to England, she and Vernon searched for a house to start their new life. Privet Drive suited them nicely. Petunia even appreciated the irony of living in a neighborhood called Little Whinging. From that point forward, all contact with Lily ceased. She had been long estranged from Severus as well. Petunia did not speculate about the nasty boy. Admittedly, she was a little curious about the chain of events that led to his estrangement from Lily, but not curious enough to let it disturb her new life.

There were a few years of quiet bliss, peeking through the curtains to see what the neighbors were doing, setting an ambitious garden plan, picking out new sets of china, dining at the neighbor's, willfully ignoring the news reports of more and more mysterious attacks. Petunia met Vernon's sister, Marge and wrinkled her nose at the woman's pitbull.

And then, she was pregnant.

If she was honest with herself—which she seldom was anymore—the idea of pregnancy frightened her. It seemed like a messy and uncomfortable process. There had been a few cases at school of slags knocked up, producing ungrateful little brats who did nothing but cry and poop. But Petunia pasted on a smile, went shopping for maternity clothes, and acted as every expectant mother was expected to act—delighted. She _would_ love this child. She _would_ welcome it into the world. If only for Vernon's sake.

It should not have come as a surprise, then, that she became one of those parents who, in an attempt to make the baby stop crying, did everything they could to appease them. She fawned over Dudley—Vernon picked the name, Petunia had been shockingly indifferent, and quickly managed to cover that indifference—she cooed and smothered him with kisses. Vernon was genuinely pleased with his son. He speculated loudly and at great length what a fine, sporting chap his son would become, just like his old man. Petunia watched with narrow eyes and had to fight the urge to flee to the toilet and vomit. She simply cooed louder.

And then, _he_ happened.

Petunia wasn't sure which he she was referring to—either the mad Dark Lord who had killed her sister and the Potter man, or her sister's son. Or that infuriating Dumbledore, from whom she had received that letter all those years ago. Petunia had never forgotten it.

He came waltzing into their lives— _her_ life, that she had closed off to magic—with his magic and his demands and the memory of her sister. Petunia was furious. She _did not_ want to be saddled down with another child, especially since she had made up her mind that she did not want more children. Here was this baby with a scar on his forehead reminding him of everything she did not want to remember, everything she had tried to forget. Petunia could not even put a name to the things she was feeling, or the memories that were pushing to the forefront of her mind. The idiot Dumbledore didn't even have the courtesy to tell her when they were holding her sister's funeral! Not that she was sure she would have attended, but if the bumbling fool was going to invoke this blood connection, he should at least give her this satisfaction!

And it was not lost on her that the one time she was able to invoke magic— _real_ magic—it was through her blood. Her dry, thin, bitter blood.

The same blood, Dumbledore had claimed, ran through her sister's veins. If Petunia had the same blood as Lily, why wasn't she able to perform magic? Why wasn't she able to share that same wonderful dream that had, in the end, cost her everything? Petunia wanted to scream at Dumbledore's letter—another letter! The _wizard_ couldn't even _condescend_ to _ask_ her instead of simply leaving the baby at her doorstep—she wanted to slam the door on the baby, on the wizard whose face she had never known yet had determined so much of her life, on the vision of Lily's vivacious green eyes turned glassy. She wanted to close herself off, knowing full well the _thing_ 's presence would be like a canker sore under her tongue. But she didn't.

No. She would _have_ her revenge. Dumbledore wanted Harry alive? She would keep the boy alive. And that was all.

She took the sleeping baby into the house. Its face reminded her of a squashed monkey. Dudley's face had reminded her of a deformed pumpkin. For a moment, she put the two boys side by side and wondered if her mother had ever done the same with her and Lily. They looked almost like twins, their features were so similar. If she took Harry in, as Dumbledore had so kindly demanded in his letter, the boys could grow as friends, perhaps consider each other as brothers.

Then, the pragmatic side of Petunia froze those thoughts.

Dumbledore had dumped the child on her doorstep thinking it would be no trouble at all. No inconvenience to the Dursleys, to the _muggles_. Any woman would want another child to _brighten_ their home. Any woman would welcome her sister's boy with open arms. Petunia was not any woman. Vernon had lately been voicing his concern that she should be more affectionate with Dudley. He first took notice when Petunia, exhausted and frustrated by her fruitless attempts to make her son stop wailing, finally snapped at the creature to quit being such a prat and _shut up_. And Dumbledore thought Petunia would _gladly_ raise another one?

This child meant paperwork. It meant registering his existence in government files, obtaining birth certificates and identification numbers, it meant explaining where Lily had been for the past twenty years, it meant going to court, signing adoption papers, appointments at the doctor's, explaining Harry to the neighbors and later, it would mean enrolling him in school. This child meant fees and headaches, training him to use the toilet and teaching him to read, waking up in the middle of the night to make it stop crying. And she had a feeling that the babies would set each other off so that the house would be filled at the godforsaken hour of four in the morning with the sound of _two_ screaming infants.

On some level, Petunia knew she should stop and consider the child. On some level, she understood that it was unfair to blame the baby for _being_ a baby and for what had happened. Harry was no more at fault for this mess Petunia found herself in than Lily was for being born with magic.

But Petunia was angry and hurt and bloody _exhausted_ in more ways than she could count or dared to acknowledge. The loss of her sister made her feel guilty, but that guilt was overpowered by Petunia's sense of loss to the magical world. This boy was now her only connection, and she knew the time would come when he began showing signs of his magic. The magic that should have been hers. The magic that marked him a freak. There would come a time when an owl appeared with a letter to whisk him away to a school called Hogwarts where he would learn marvelous things that the rest of the world could only fantasize of doing.

If there was one thing Petunia would not allow, it was for history to repeat itself. She would not have her son crushed as she had been crushed by the knowledge she was not magical. She did not love Dudley any more than she loved Harry, not in the way everyone said mothers should their sons, but she would not have Dudley's life lost, wasted on dreams in a world that would never accept him. They had killed her sister, hadn't they? And she had _been_ one of them. But they still resented her blood, her origins.

No. Harry was going to be made to feel like the freak Petunia always felt she was, trapped between two worlds, unable to gain access to one, unable to integrate into the other. She would never tell him the truth. She would cut him off from his world as long as she could, and she would make it clear to Dudley that there was nothing to envy about the little freak. Petunia wanted to leave in Harry the longing for another world that she had been haunted by for all these years. She would make him feel abnormal as long as he lived under her roof.

It was a simple matter to make Vernon follow her example.

Petunia smiled, the expression cold. Were it not for Harry, she doubted she would have shown half the affection she was planning on showering now on Dudley. It was no work to set the children against each other. And there was no reason why this baby should have a room in the house. Better stick it in the broom closet under the stairs. She wouldn't have to deal with its incessant crying.

She knew she shouldn't do this. She knew she might regret it. But it was just like Lily to die and leave behind a mess for Petunia to clean up, and it was just like Petunia to resent her for dying. This child was not her responsibility and if she had the choice, she would have abandoned it at the local orphanage. Dumbledore wanted her to treat Harry as her own child—he didn't realize that Petunia didn't _have_ any natural affection for Dudley. The act would grow on her until it became reality, she knew. But true love, like magic, was something only Lily had been capable of. Petunia's blood was thin and dry and bitter as wormwood.

And perhaps the greatest part of her revenge was the fact that Harry would spend his formative years under her _tender_ care. The wizarding world would expect their savior to resemble his parents—Lily and Potter. Petunia did not delude herself. She knew he would take on some innate characteristics from both his biological parents.

But they would not expect _her_ imprint on his character. She would teach him lessons he would never forget.

So, whatever her nephew might think, Petunia Dursley was not displeased when Harry learned to trick and cheat and lie and attempt to maneuver his way around her. If she were honest with herself—which she never was anymore—she would admit that Harry felt more like her son that Dudley ever did or would. Dudley inherited his small talent for manipulation from her, though he did also get a healthy measure of Vernon's brains. Harry knew how to be shrewd. If he had a few more brain cells, he would have begun to resemble Snape. Petunia took perverse pleasure in that thought.

Petunia looked out the window. Harry was clipping the grass while Dudley was fiddling with a lighter.

Stupid boy. Did he think she wouldn't know he smoked when he came home every day reeking of it? As for Harry, she could always tell when he had tried to work on his magic assignments by the inkspots on his fingers.

Another time, another place. Another life, and she might have been a more generous woman who loved both boys without the mocking, bitter edge that now characterized her actions. Harry, Vernon, the neighbors, all thought Petunia adored Dudley. They didn't know the half of it. Harry didn't know because Harry couldn't see—as a child he had been too caught up in the question of why Petunia had never smothered him with her sickly sweet affection—but there were times when she saw Dudley look at her with fear and puzzlement in his eyes. As though he had inherited her uncanny ability to know things and he felt that her love was a caricature of the real thing.

Well.

Perhaps it was and perhaps it wasn't. She hardly knew herself.

She idly sipped her tea.

For some strange reason, Petunia's thoughts went to Severus Snape. She had not seen or heard of him for years now, but somehow she felt a sympathetic twinge. It passed quickly enough, but she could not help but wonder what had happened to him. Would he recognize her? Would he recognize himself. She shuddered, teeth chattering, skin tightening on her bones.

Petunia set her tea down.

Harry stomped into the house and bolted up the stairs to take a shower.

Petunia screeched at him to leave his muddy trainers at the door, she wouldn't have him tracking dirt into her house. He slammed the door.

And somehow she knew deep inside, with that uncanny feeling of hers, that if she were honest with herself she would know that Harry was a complete stranger in her house, a phantom who visited every summer.

If she were honest with herself, she would know that it was true: she was a caricature of herself.

And that scared her more than any bogeyman magic could make.


End file.
